Destiny's Path (10 page)

B
RANWEN GAZED INTO
Iwan's eyes. “Kill me now rather than hand me over to the prince,” she said.

“As you wish,” said Iwan. He glanced for an instant at Blodwedd, his arrowhead still aimed at Branwen's heart. “But I'd like to know first why you threw your whole life away for that Saxon vagabond—and what madness brought you back here.” An uncharacteristic urgency entered his voice. “Prince Llew
will
have you hanged, Branwen, have no doubt about that—princess or no. And your feet will be dangling long before your father could bring a force over the mountains to seek your rescue.”

“My father is dead,” said Branwen flatly.

Iwan let out a long, regretful breath and grimaced in dismay, lowering his bow. “Then it is true.”
There was sympathy in his eyes now. “One of the men sent to seek you in the mountains returned here on a foaming, exhausted horse late yesterday eve. He came staggering into the Great Hall, speaking of battle and disaster in Cyffin Tir. He said Garth Milain was burning and all were slain. The prince and Captain Angor bade him be silent, and we were sworn to speak nothing of his grim tidings. Then they took the rider to the private chambers, and we were told nothing more.” He frowned. “But how do
you
know of this?”

“I was at the battle, Iwan,” said Branwen, her voice trembling at the memory. She was aware of Blodwedd chafing at her side. “I have traveled far since last we met. I fought at my mother's side. The Saxons were beaten back.”

“So Garth Milain is not lost?”

“Not lost to the Saxons,” said Branwen. “But it was burning when I left, and my father lay dead upon the battlefield.”

At last, the owl-girl could keep her silence no longer. “Tell the boy why we are here,” she said. “Tell him of Lord Govannon's prophecy.”

“Lord Govannon?” breathed Iwan, staring at her. “Govannon of the Shining Ones? There is no such creature! What madness is this, Branwen?”

“A great madness indeed,” said Branwen.

Blodwedd's eyes suddenly narrowed. “It is not safe here,” she said. “People approach. I hear their voices—I smell them—they are close.”

There was a wooden entrance in the wall of the long building. “What's beyond this door?” Branwen asked.

“A storage hut for animal feed,” Iwan replied. He walked rapidly toward the door. “Come. We will speak within, away from prying eyes.” He gave her a wry look. “And if our discussions turn bad, we shall see whether I can loose an arrow more speedily than you can a stone.”

He opened the door and they entered a long room piled with sheaves of wheat. The air was stuffy under the thatch, smelling strongly of the dry wheat. Behind them, Iwan swung the door to, leaving it open a fraction so that a strip of bright light was thrown across the piled sheaves. Branwen blinked, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness.

“Tell me your tale,” Iwan said. “Although if you truly believe you have come here as the emissaries of a dead god, then I fear there is little I can do for you.” He looked closely at Blodwedd. “Who
is
this, Branwen?” he asked, lowering his head to look into Blodwedd's wimple. He gave a low gasp at the sight of her wide, golden eyes, bright even in the half-light. He looked at Branwen. “By all the saints—what is she?”

“Her name is Blodwedd,” Branwen said. “If I told you more, you would think me out of my wits.” She looked into his confused face. “I have come back here to give you a warning, Iwan.”

“A warning?” An eyebrow arched. “Of what would you warn me?” he asked. “To be more vigilant when I am assigned as sentry over a Saxon spy? That is a lesson I have already learned, Branwen, to my great discomfort. I got Captain Angor's rod across my back for allowing you to make a fool of me like that. I'll not be duped by you a second time.”

“I'm sorry you were beaten,” said Branwen. “I would not have wished that upon you. But I had to save Rhodri. He would have been tortured and hanged otherwise, and he is
not
a spy. It was his warning that took me to Garth Milain in time to beat the enemy back. I told Prince Llew that Garth Milain would be attacked, and he called me a fool and a dupe!” Her eyes blazed. “He knows otherwise now.” A thought struck her. “You say the horseman came last night with the news of the battle? What has the prince done? Is he gathering a force to pass over the mountains and come to the aid of Cyffin Tir?”

“Not that I know of,” said Iwan. “I am not privy to the prince's high councils, but I have seen and heard nothing to suggest that he intends to send a troop of men into the east. And word has certainly not gone abroad in Doeth Palas of the battle. The people here go about their daily lives, and their only fear is that their throats may be cut by a Saxon spy and the lunatic princess who set him loose!”

“So the prince does nothing,” Branwen said bitterly. “A noble ally in times of woe! The garth burns,
and he sits on his hands!”

“You want me to go to the prince and ask him to ride to the aid of Cyffin Tir, is that it?” asked Iwan. “He would not heed me, even if I were allowed to speak with him. But no—you said you were here to ‘warn' me of something.”

“The Saxon hawks circle above the house of the singing gulls,” said Blodwedd. “That is the warning we have come here to give you. How will you act, boy? What will you do?”

Iwan stared incredulously at her, clearly nonplussed by her enigmatic speech. “She talks in moonstruck riddles!” he snapped, turning to Branwen. “What does she mean?”

“She means that Gwylan Canu is in danger of Saxon attack,” said Branwen.

“As are we all,” replied Iwan. “This is no news.”

“Herewulf Ironfist already leads an army northward,” said Branwen. “They will come upon the fortress of your father by land and by sea. All will be slaughtered. A Saxon pennant will fly over the broken gates of Gwylan Canu.” She chose not to mention that in her vision, Iwan himself was also slain and mutilated.

“How do you know of Ironfist's movements?” Iwan demanded. “And how are you so sure that my father will not throw back the Saxons from his walls? You cannot know for certain that defeat will be the outcome of a battle that has not yet been fought.”

“I was shown it!” cried Branwen. “Please, Iwan. Trust me!”

Iwan hesitated, his face twisted by confusion and doubt. “What do you mean when you say you were
shown
it?” he asked. “Branwen! If you want me to believe you, I must know more.”

“Would you know more, boy?” growled Blodwedd, drawing back her wimple so that her inhuman eyes caught the strip of sunlight and reflected it like molten gold. “Would you have me show you more?”

She moved forward, silent and swift, deadly as a feathered barb. Iwan gasped and stepped back, his eyes staring from his pale face.

“Blodwedd! No!” breathed Branwen, pressing quickly between Iwan and the owl-girl. “Do not do this!” She knew what was coming—what the owl-girl intended for Iwan.

Blodwedd pushed Branwen aside with ease, her clawlike fingers coming up on either side of Iwan's startled face. She pulled his head down and stared intently into his eyes.

“See now, and
understand!
”

Branwen saw a look of horror burn across Iwan's face as his gaze was caught and held by Blodwedd's. He stopped struggling and dropped heavily to his knees, his arms hanging limp—a marionette with its strings cut, held up by the owl-girl's two thin hands and by the power in her blazing eyes.

As he knelt there, transfixed by Blodwedd's
gaze, his expression grew ever more alarmed and appalled.

His lips moved. “No…no…no…Father! They come from all sides! Ware! Ware!” Then he cried out, tears running from his eyes. “No…! Father—
no!
”

“Blodwedd, stop!” gasped Branwen, pulling at the owl-girl's arm. The vision of Iwan's severed head rose ominously before her mind's eye.

Blodwedd let out a low, threatening hiss.

“No!” shouted Branwen. “Enough!” She clasped her arms around the owl-girl's waist and heaved her backward, breaking her grip on Iwan—severing the dreadful link between them.

Iwan groaned and fell forward onto his hands, panting, his head hanging.

Blodwedd looked at Branwen. “It was necessary,” she said. “It is done.”

Iwan lifted his head and stared at her. “What are you?” he gasped.

“I am Blodwedd of the Far-Seeing Eye,” replied the owl-girl. “I was sent by Lord Govannon to guide the Warrior-Child on her true path. The Shining Ones have chosen her to be the Savior of Brython. The Old Gods do not sleep—they are watching over her.”

“But is…is my father already…dead?” gasped Iwan. “Is Gwylan Canu fallen?”

“No!” exclaimed Branwen. “I do not believe so. You must go to Prince Llew, Iwan. Speak with him.
Tell him of your father's peril and beg him to send a force of warriors along the coast to Gwylan Canu.”

Iwan gaped at her. He staggered, still disoriented and dazed by the intensity of Blodwedd's vision. Branwen caught his arm. He leaned heavily on her, panting for breath.

“This is madness,” he gasped. “Visions and dead gods? Am I a gullible child to be told such things and believe?” He glared at Blodwedd. “This she-devil is a sorceress!”

“Believe me,” said Branwen, her fingers digging into his arm. “I know how the mind revolts. I, too, denied these things—until denial became impossible.” She tugged at his arm. “Look at me, Iwan. Have I lost my wits? Am I a stranger to truth and reality? Is that how I seem to you?”

He rubbed his arm across his face and peered at her. His eyes were on hers for a long time, as though he was trying to pierce her mind and stare deep into her soul.

“Even were I fool enough to trust you, Branwen,” he said at last, his voice slow and heavy, “the prince would not send warriors to Gwylan Canu on my word alone. And you can be quite certain that I would not go to him with the tale you tell—not unless I wanted the madness whipped out of me.”

“Then tell him a different tale,” said Branwen. “Tell him you met with a messenger riding hard from your father's fortress—a messenger with grim
and urgent news! Tell him you learned that Gwylan Canu is in deadly danger, that the Saxons are coming in force. Tell him you told the messenger that you would pass this news onto the prince, and you sent the rider back to Gwylan Canu with all the speed he could muster, back to your father to let him know that he should hold firm, for aid would swiftly follow. Tell the prince all that!”

“A messenger from Gwylan Canu?” murmured Iwan. “Dagonet ap Wadu, perhaps—he would know me well and take orders from me. But, no! He could not have entered Doeth Palas without drawing the attention of the guards on the gate.”

“Then tell the prince you met him on the road, outside the citadel,” urged Branwen.

“Yes, yes,” muttered Iwan. “It is possible that I could have met with Dagonet on the east road while wandering abroad, exercising my horse.” He ran his hand over his forehead. “Ach, but to take such a tale to the prince? Would I be able to convince him that I am telling the truth?”

“You have shown no difficulty in being plausible in the past, Iwan,” Branwen said. “The first time we met, you played me for a fool with ease.”

Iwan nodded. “I can playact most blithely, for certain,” he said. “But this is a deadlier game by far, Branwen. And if I am believed, and you prove false, it will be the end of me at Prince Llew's court. I will be disgraced—or worse.”

“I will not prove false,” said Branwen. “You have looked into Blodwedd's eyes and seen the same things she showed me. The danger is real. Ironfist is coming for Gwylan Canu—you cannot think otherwise.”

There was a long silence. Branwen could see Iwan was thinking hard—deciding whether or not to give credence to what he had seen. At last, he took a long, slow breath. “No, I do not think otherwise,” he said. “I will go to Prince Llew. I will make him listen—I will make him believe. But what of you, Branwen? You cannot show yourself in Doeth Palas.”

“I shall not,” said Branwen. “We came here only to speak with you—to convince you that your home is in peril. We will go now.”

“Will this prince of men believe—and act?” asked Blodwedd. “Is it certain that warriors will be sent to the place of the singing gulls?” She looked sharply at Branwen. “Unless our actions work to the salvation of the citadel on the seashore, we will have failed in our task. Should we not go with this boy to the prince and add the weight of our words to his argument?”

“You cannot do that,” said Iwan. “Branwen is a condemned fugitive—the prince would never listen to her.” He looked at Blodwedd. “As for you,” he shook his head, “one glance into your eyes and Prince Llew would know you for a demon of the old times. You would be slaughtered on the spot.”

“That would not be such an easy task,” Blodwedd growled.

“Nevertheless, I doubt even you could hold out against fifty warriors,” Branwen said. “You would die and I would soon hang, and all would be lost. No. Iwan must go alone.”

“I shall,” said Iwan. He stood in the doorway, the door half open so that he was bathed in sunlight and his long shadow stretched across the floor. He looked at Branwen. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for trusting me.” He gave her the ghost of a smile. “Did I not say you would have an interesting life, Branwen? I never knew till today that I was gifted with prophecy! But if it is so, then here's one last foretelling: We
will
meet again, barbarian princess, and you will see you were right to put your faith in me. But for now—farewell.” He turned and ran from the building.

Branwen stepped outside cautiously and watched until he turned a corner and vanished. All the time that her eyes were on him, she could feel rage rising within her. She had kept it suppressed so long as Iwan was with them, but now she turned to Blodwedd, free to give voice to her fury. “Did you show him his own death?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “Did you make him see his own head hanging from a Saxon fist?”